


when you say you love me (know i love you more.)

by lilaclavenders



Series: 'cause i love you, just how you are [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Character's Name Spelled as Viktor, Established Relationship, F/F, Genderbending, Implied Sexual Content, Jewish Victor Nikiforov, Post-Canon, Rule 63, cisflip, or Viktoria I guess?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-30 19:12:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15757944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilaclavenders/pseuds/lilaclavenders
Summary: Like any of the greats, Viktoria Nikiforova was not born a fully fledged goddess, with gold around her neck, clinging as poison ivy does, and a charm that could rival a siren’s. (But it’s easier to imagine she was.)





	when you say you love me (know i love you more.)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Firebird](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11565867) by [LavenderProse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LavenderProse/pseuds/LavenderProse). 



> title taken from miley cyrus' song lmao 
> 
> also i wrote this in like two hours or something and i will probably make edits to grammar when i find them yikes 
> 
> but i've been reading lavenderprose's 'firebird' again and i've never once recovered from the 49594952 times i've read that masterpiece.
> 
> ok so, Yuuri is Yuri and Viktor is Viktoria/Vika bc why the hell not

* * *

 

Like any of the greats, Viktoria Nikiforova was not born a fully fledged goddess, with gold around her neck, clinging as poison ivy does, and a charm that could rival a siren’s. (But it’s easier to imagine she was.) It’s easier to pin all our hopes onto someone so unattainable, ever-evolving – a goal in which to give no one the excuse of ever settling for less, that humanity was capable of perfection. (She had no excuse for satisfaction.)

But, what we knew for sure is that she, like any other human being, revolved around the notion of _love_ – though the methods in which, given and received, would vary and were anything but traditional. She’s always had a penchant for surprises, but since all has been said and done, it doesn’t matter in the end.

Of course, love mattered in different ways to different people – like the way the press would believe Viktoria’s love life (or lack thereof) mattered to them, so she had eventually said “Why does it matter? I am married to the ice.” The press were drawn to single women in their twenties.

 _Ah, yes,_ they conclude _,_ an apparent realisation – they’ve finally worked her out _. No wonder why she’s just as cold, unattainable and polished; would she melt just as ice does, when the sun dares to rise from a long winter? Would she let herself go?_

 _Gold,_ she wonders, _I am made of gold. Rare, precious and-_

 _S_ he does not need to reveal her irritation every time; a quirk of a brow is sufficient enough. A winner knows nothing about the sweet taste of victory, without having lost at least once in their life.

Though there is something about the way magazines and tabloids show her losses through the amount of life and love she’s missed. Some call it arrogance, and she calls it loneliness. They throw words like legendary, inspirational and flawless at her; they scatter blue rose petals around her body and tell her she’s talented, iconic. It’s always Miss. Nikiforova this, Miss Nikiforova that, new faces with the same words of gormless worship. She’s turned into something of a trophy, something shiny passed around quickly, before she melts. She’s always had gold in her hands and one pillow on her bed.

She used to think, _is this what love is?_ _Would a constant, desperate stream of giving be enough?_

She’s given everything she’s had to the sport by straining her body, because it’s all she had – and besides, a pair of skates can’t exactly hurt you the way a lover can, even if she can see the bruises on her body from long ago.

* * *

 

But now?

It’s not even 5am yet, but Viktoria awakens (old habits die hard), her movements are fluid, legato; she rises with the sun. (Even if she’s well into her retirement, she knows she still has a long way to go.) She shines with the first rays of the sun, her dishevelled, platinum locks melting into shades of gold and orange and her irises are as warm as a clear sky. She quietly scurries around her room until she finds her silk robe and loosely ties it around her waist in a hurry, pretty much useless at this point – she can’t afford to miss this.  

She knows she’s a beat too late, because the covers rustle and shift without her presence. A raspy groan is heard, muffled with the softness of dawn and sleep. As she retreats back into the sanctuary of her bed, Viktoria (internally) shouts, with all of her might, _Isn’t she beautiful?_

She gives it all away, her jaws hurting because she’s never smiled so much, so naturally. She has a look on her eyes that can’t be from the sun, as her eyes have adjusted long ago. It’s something better, something far brighter – an epiphany, one she’ll have every day until she can no longer rise with the sun.

She’s found _love_.

Donning an oversized, threadbare shirt, Love, in the form of Yuri Katsuki-Nikiforova, is burrowed in their bed. Her limbs are ungracefully pretzeled into and around at least 85% of the duvet, and her hair fans across her cheeks, and the Egyptian cotton pillowcase Viktoria had retrieved, from the depths of her cupboards, last night. (Sure, there are more creases on Yuri’s pillowcase than Viktoria’s, but the latter’s glad she’s finally able to use it.) Yuri doesn’t snore, but softly sighs, a thing of relief and content. Viktoria revels in these things, anything and everything that Yuri Katsuki-Nikiforova offers to her.

The Russian gently pushes a few stray hairs away from Yuri’s cheek and tucks them away, behind her ear, revealing a rosy cheek and several marks from her creased pillowcase. “Amazing!” Viktoria gasps with a whisper, pulling her camera out to capture the bare essence of Japan’s best, the newest Grand Prix Gold medallist in front of her.  

Upon closer inspection, Viktoria notices there’s a bit of drool on the corner of Yuri’s mouth and that one of her socks is only covering half of her foot, as it sticks out from underneath the duvet. This, Viktoria decides, is all too much for her – no one had ever given her time to fall in love before. But that’s the thing about legends, those they’ll meet will be desperate to climb as high as her, or even higher – who on earth would dare reveal to Viktoria Nikiforova that they were anything less? But she knows now, less is more. Loneliness was everything to her, once.

Gold medals are no longer made of pure gold and Viktoria’s knee is weaker than it used to be – So, as a woman of constant change does, she adapts (to what she wants.) She fits her life around two people, something more challenging than pleasing the entire world.

 “Vika,” a voice grumbles, from an equally disgruntled face.

“Ah, fuck.” Vika says, feigning shock with a grin. “I forgot to turn my phone on silent.” (She amplifies that grin to the shit-eating variety, as Yuri had once called it.)

 “Mhm,” Yuri replies, retreating back into the covers as the sun climbs higher into her vision. “Sure ya’ did.” Viktoria likes how Yuri’s voice has an American twang to it.

 _Gold_ , Viktoria realises, _is also soft_. A couple of years with Yuri Katsuki has almost undone twenty years of solitude Viktoria Nikiforova has built up and she’s almost forgotten how she’d managed to live without her. Gold is easily impressionable, able to mould into whatever shape you want with some ease - that isn’t to say that Viktoria is no longer a thing of legends, because she definitely is. But now, she’s willing to be whoever she wants to be, because she says so. (And because that’s the way Yuri loves her.)

Viktoria Nikiforova had been heavily synonymous with gods, once. She had fallen from the same empire she had built, only for someone new to re-emerge from the ashes. Viktoria Nikiforova remembers laughing once, when someone told her _love changes a person_ , but Vika, Viktoria Katsuki-Nikiforova relishes in this small thing.

“Good morning,” Viktoria whispers, coaxing her wife out of the covers. She grabs a pair of well-loved, blue framed glasses and passes them to the sleepy woman opposite her.

Yuri blinks, adjusting to the light and her vision, as she pushes her glasses onto her face. She then squints, as if she doesn’t understand what her wife had just said to her. “It’s practically midnight, Vika,” Yuri groans, her words still coated in the last dredges of sleep. “Why did I marry someone who wakes up this early?”

“Because you love me,” Viktoria replies, hushed, getting used to the intimacy of love. No medals, no money, nothing. She wonders what the world would do to take a peek into Viktoria Katsuki-Nikiforova’s life, and wonder if a goddess can truly be without fault. It took her a couple of decades to find someone who made her realise that she had never truly been loved the way Yuri does, as equals and not as an idol and her patron, a goddess and her worshipper. ( _Though,_ Viktoria supposes, _it doesn't hurt to hear words of praise spill helplessly from her wife's lips at night._ )

“I do,” Yuri agrees, simple as that, as confident as she’s ever been. She knows love, gives it because she wants to and not because she needs to.

Vika then breaks into a smile, twisting the ring around her finger.

It’s easier to imagine her as Yuri’s somewhat sexually inexperienced wife, eagerly and sloppily peppering her with kisses as the sun comes up, even if she has morning breath and shamelessly walks around naked in their apartment.

It’s easier to imagine her as Hiroko’s daughter-in-law, different to the dog-eared posters in her daughter’s bedroom, who cannot cook or proficiently speak Japanese and has obscenely platinum blonde hair, which makes it easier to spot her on her mustard coloured bike, as she wanders sleepy Hasetsu, (if her astounding height didn’t capture her eye first.)  

It’s easier to imagine her as Yakov’s (sort of) adopted daughter, who gives the impression of a silly and carefree teenager, who threw her dog a Bar Mitzvah- _No, Yakov! It’s a Bark Mitzvah!,_ and cut her hair in the sink at 3am on her 20 th birthday because she was scared there wasn’t any other way of keeping herself at the heart of the skating world.

Hell, it’s even easier to imagine her as Yuri’s coach, who proudly wears a blunt honesty and nothing that isn’t designer, and always has an excuse to touch Yuri’s body _because, Yuri, darling, it’s so cold in ice rinks!_

But anyone who knew Vika, the way Vika does, is that it’s easiest to imagine her in love with someone like Yuri, who wears gold as a promise and her heart on her sleeve and knows forever isn't quite enough with her.


End file.
